


Alphabet Soup for Christmas

by CassieIngaben



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Funny, Gen, Humor, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Inspired by A Muppet Christmas Carol, M/M, Muppet References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 10,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben
Summary: "A Christmas play. A famous one. He said it's adapted from a story by one of their most famous writers; his name starts with a D…"
Relationships: Klaus von dem Eberbach/Dorian Red Gloria
Comments: 179
Kudos: 16





	1. Herr A

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my personal version of an Eroica Advent calendar. I will post a daily snippet focusing on each of Klaus's Alphabets in sequence (I know, I know… I'll still manage to fit all of them into 24 days, somehow). Because of time constraints—I'm doing this in real time—the snippets will be posted unedited, which is really Not Me: but I'll get them all checked for glaring errors at the end. In the meantime, apologies to the English language. Ratings and pairings etc. may vary as I go along, will change accordingly. 
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone!

"Who was that, dear?"

Herr A smiled at his wife. "Just a friend from England. He asked me to help him stage a play."

"A play?"

"A Christmas play. A famous one. He said it's adapted from a story by one of their most famous writers; his name starts with a D…"

Berit did a double take. _A Christmas Carol_?!"

"Uh, yes, how do you—of course, that posh school you went to."

She pouted. "You weren't complaining when I helped you with that mission of yours by explaining what a Napoleon cipher is. I wonder what they taught you at spy school."

A opened his mouth to start on his usual fervent – if feeble – defence, and then decided it wasn't worth it. He had enough to deal with already with Bonham's play and all. Also, Berit hadn't quite guessed the right title. Ha!

"And I wonder what they taught you in Montreux after all. The play's not titled _A Christmas Carol_. It's titled _A Muppet Christmas Carol_. Whatever a muppet is."

She closed her eyes and slowly rubbed her fingers over her forehead. "Oh dear. Green is so not your colour."


	2. Herr B

"B for bumbling!" Crowed James.

Bonham whirled around and glared at him. Even James, it seemed, sometimes had the good grace of cringing.

"Uh... Sorry?"

"And, James? Pot, kettle, black."

"I'm not bumbling!"

"True. You're lethally effective at being a miserly nuisance."

B sighed, and tuned them out. Try them balancing on a tall table while rehearsing unfamiliar—and repetitive—lines in a foreign language. Dare them not to be bumbling.

It was unfortunate that the Major had been speaking English as he fatally and famously berated B for fumbling that job with the Napoleon cipher in Portsmouth: the 'B for bumbling' epithet had stuck.

It was doubly unfortunate that Eroica's team had also been there—for a change—and had immediately picked up the moniker and run with it. And kept running. Especially the stingy bug, who could run so fast his legs went stroboscopic, God only knew how. 

It was trebly unfortunate that he'd been dragged into this by D, E and R. How could they think a Christmas farce jointly organised by the Alphabet and Eroica's team could work at all, let alone not leave them all dead. Messily.

He wiggled once again, and decided their enthusiasm was ridiculous, and deranged.

And, his costume itched. Who the hell had thought green baize was a good idea?


	3. Herr C

C covered his ears with his hands: "Can we please have them rehearse somewhere else? I'm getting a headache."

"We need carols."

"Do we?"

Bonham just Looked at C.

"I don't understand, anyway. We have 21 days left, why are they singing about the twelve days of Christmas?"

"How can you not know the Twelve Days of Christmas?" Asked James.

"I'm a Satanist."

James did a double-take, and looked mesmerised for a moment, a glinting flash briefly intimating where his other eye probably was. Then he startled, looked confused, then shook his head as if to clear it. "Whatever. Help us shift this coal-box, will you."

"But it's empty."

"That's exactly the point. Coal is expensive!"

Even empty, the coal-box was heavy. Fortunately, James was much stronger than he looked. Unfortunately, C was not as strong as he looked—which never went unremarked by the Major, who enjoyed throwing a 25 kg dumb-bell at him, bark 'CATCH!' and then deride him—but after much pushing and pulling they managed to move the coal-box towards the end of the stage, near a miniature fireplace. C looked at the fireplace, and cleared his throat. "I think you got the size wrong. Inches instead of feet, maybe? Something like that."

James threw his head back and sniffed. "That's exactly the point. Coal is expensive!" Then he marched out, mumbling something about shovels and leprechauns.

C turned towards Bonham, who was scrawling on a thick manuscript with a thick, blunt pencil, tongue between his teeth. "Ehm. May I ask a question?"

Bonham looked up. "What?"

"A question."

"Alright."

"We, I mean, I—" _better not to mention the office pool_ "—I always wondered about your accountant. I mean—"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Whatever you may think of him. Yes. Well, not always. Sometimes, no."

C blinked and stared. "Right. But I meant—about his eyes."

Bonham sighed. "You too."

Sounding strangled, C said very fast: "Does he have two eyes? We thought not, but then there was a glint right there, almost as if he had two—"

"Opinions are divided."

"Yes or no?"

"Eyes are expensive."

C's mouth opened, and then closed again. Bonham looked at him, head tilted sideways. "Alright. He's very secretive about it, but we have two theories. Either he sold one, or he's still got both but he's trying to minimise wear and tear. He's quite opinionated about both redundancy and wastefulness."

C closed his eyes—both of them—and went still for a few minutes. Eventually, Bonham went towards him and patted him on his arm. "It's ok, mate. You'll get used to it. And there's always the gin—it's in the blue cabinet to the left. But watch you don't touch the smoking bishop, we'll need it."


	4. Herr D

D had just mixed himself a largish G&T when C appeared at his side, looking hopeful. Sighing, D passed his glass to C, and started to work on another drink. He'd just mixed himself another largish G&T that James appeared at his side, looking hopeful. C and D jumped.

"Gin is expensive!" Then James smiled and gestured at the blue cabinet. "Have some more! There's plenty where that came from!"

A shocked silence followed.

"Uh. Mr. James? Are you alright?" Ventured D.

"Why shouldn't I? Just because I'm being hospitable and generous?"

More silence.

James pointed at C. "However, time is money: you need to help me with the coal-box again, quick. Jones changed his mind, we need to put it back where it came from."

D watched them deal with the coal-box, savouring his drink, thinking nostalgically of his youth, summer jobs working as a barman in Hamburg. Those were the days—or rather, the nights. Back then, he'd never thought he'd become a spy; but on one of those Hamburg nights, he'd been practically scouted by the Major, who'd spotted his hand-eye coordination and quick reflexes from the way D showed off his acrobatic cocktail-mixing at the bar. Fast-forward to his present sharp-shooter role. Which was not only disturbingly enjoyable, but also getting him out of doing any manual work: hands too precious to risk damaging them just to hammer in a very large door-nail—OUCH! That was C's thumb out of commission for a while. Oh well, maybe that would get C out of the Major's tormenting him in the gym. Everything had a silver lining.

Bonham joined D at the bar, mopping his brow with a large chequered handkerchief. "I'll never ask Jones to be stage manager ever again. I should have known from the way he bosses Gordon around: 'move this here, move that there, the sofa is at the wrong angle, that chair is blocking the light'…"

He stopped miming and gesticulating to pour himself a tonic water. He made as if to reach for the gin bottle, then he shook his head and contented himself with his tonic water. "Gin is expensive."

"Oh. Even in England?"

"Yes. Extortionate, actually. James distils it in the basement dungeons and sells it to us. If we try to buy our own, it just disappears, so we stopped: no point in paying twice. But I have to say, for a few days after each disappearance James's gin tastes much better. Not to mention the difference in the hangovers."


	5. Herr E

"…And now we use the blowtorch to curve the beak—you can do the honours!" Jones waved an alarmingly-sized blowtorch at Herr E, who blanched and jumped away.

"Watch it! My suit is polyester—I'd go up in flames!"

Jones frowned. "How can you be scared of a measly blowtorch? I thought all you manly men had a thing for flamethrowers." He winked. "Or at least used them on a regular basis. Military training and all that."

E retreated slowly, walking backwards, bulging eyes fixed on the blowtorch. "Ehm. Well, yes. Actually. That’s why—"

Jones huffed and threw his hands up. "What's your problem, then? Dickens here needs its beak curved: I hold the costume—which is actually the dangerous job—and you handle the flamethrower. I mean blowtorch. Easy."

"The Major— I mean— flamethrowers—he-- he handled our flamethrower training. Major von Dem Eberbach." To Jones's horror, E's eyes started to well up. He sniffled a couple of times, hid his face behind his hands, and fled.

Jones shook his head and sat on the coal-box. He held up the head of the Dickens's costume, carefully avoiding the pointy, still-not curved beak, and quirked his mouth at it. "Alas, my poor Gonzo. There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, when it comes to the Alphabets."


	6. Herr F

"I want more lines!"

"You already have most of them."

"You can never have enough lines! Lines are money!"

"No, they aren't. Lines are sweat. Time is money."

"Exactly. The more lines I get, the more time I am on stage, the more money I'll make."

"That's not how it goes. Just because a play is longer, it doesn't mean it will make more money. Often, it's quite the opposite. For example, who would like to sit through a 6-hour play about Napoleon?"

"I would. Napoleons are one of my favourite coins. I have six in my collection."

Bonham pinched the bridge of his nose. "James. Look. This is not helping. I'm behind with the script, and any conversation with you results in the death of a substantial number of brain cells. How can I fix the script brainless?"

"Hollywood—"

"Enough! Why don't you go check nobody filled up the coal-box by mistake?"

James paled, turned around and ran towards the stage.

Bonham sat back in his armchair, closed his eyes and exhaled. When he reopened them, he was treated to the sight of one of the Alphabets—F?— offering him a tall glass. "Gin?"

"Ehm. I'd rather not. We haven't bought any from the shop in a while. You may want to go easy on it." 

F looked lost for a moment, then recovered his aplomb. "Right. A told me you were having trouble with the script."

"I'm behind. Too many things to do. The costume fitting took ages, because everybody lied about their measurements. Jones changed his mind about the set—again. We ran out of green baize—or maybe James sold it, we found a receipt from the World Professional Billiards and Snooker Association. B dropped a spotlight on G, and the wait at A&E went on forever. We're running out of evasive manoeuvres to prevent Lord Gloria and your Major from finding out about the play. The blowtorch exploded—even if this time G was well enough to patch Jones up, so it was much faster than A&E. Gordon found cockroaches in the kitchen—again—so we had to have a stern talk with James on not letting his pets in the house. Then—"

"You know? It sounds magnificent! Maybe you should write a short story about this. 'Mission Christmas Spirits'. Then, spread the rumour that the story is about Lord Gloria and the Major, and it will sell like hot cakes on the Internet."

"Selling stories about Lord Gloria and the Major— You too? James keeps trying, but midway through he has a temper tantrum, screams 'I can't have them do _it_ ' and disappears in the dungeon for days. The gin is particularly foul for weeks. Are you an accountant or a pornographer?"

"Speech-writer. For when the Major goes to official events. You know, we want to make sure he doesn't get fired or court-martialled, so we don't let him improvise. Ever."

Bonham tried to hide a smile, mostly unsuccessfully. "I can see that."

F preened. "I've kept him out of jail for years."

"Same here, for Lord Gloria."

They exchanged the rueful smiles of colleagues sharing war stories. Then F pointed at the script on Bonham's knees, and pulled out a fountain pen with a NATO logo on the side. "Anyway. That's why I'm here. A told me to help you. Maybe add a few more speeches? You can't go wrong with a soliloquy."


	7. Frau G

"…and Miss Piggy is the perfect example of the problematic post-feminist subject of course, even if using 'post-feminist sensibility' as an analytic is a bit of an anachronism because back then she was intended to be a representation of a second-wave, sex-positive feminist, and yes I know, death of the author, and all that, but bear in mind we're talking ideal reader here, hegemonic all the way through—anyway, within today's Neoliberal discourses and affects she's primarily readable as a proto-Kardashian figure of the post-feminist masquerade, so I have my reservations about playing what can be read as a sexualised foil circuitously revalidating male chauvinist pigs—or even frogs performing/embodying neo-normative inclusive masculinity— "

"Who said you're playing Miss Piggy?"

G looked confused. "I'm the only woman here—Rudy decided they're genderqueer—so I assumed—"

Bonham eyeballed her. "What did they teach at that posh University of yours about gender stereotyping and typecasting? You're going to play Bob Cratchit."


	8. Herr H

"Are you sure you're a musician?"

"I'll let you know that I played the most important wind instrument in my hometown." Said H.

Jones raised an eyebrow, very high. "Course you have. And you're from the Bavarian Alps, right?"

H nodded. Jones's eyebrow entered orbit, and he sucked in a deep breath. Then he shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We need someone to lead a mixed choir of you and us, and we might use some help; you're supposed to be good at discipline and acting in unison. Even if I've heard your idea of keeping tempo, and it gave me arrhythmia. I'll have to take care of that. Have you worked on the lyrics and the programme, at least?"

"I was busy so I asked C to take care of that. He said he was getting the handle of the 17 Days of Christmas. And when we heard that one of the characters is called Marley we decided to add 'Redemption Song' to the programme. It has a nice festive ring to it."

Jones closed his eyes. "This is not happening." Then he turned around. "I'll ask Bonham to re-write the scene to feature a crappy band. I have to see him for his costume anyway."

"Ah, thank you for adapting the script. I think. And by the way, about my musical background, I'll have you know—"

The rest of the sentence was lost on Jones, as he slammed the door behind him.


	9. Herr I

"I'm I—"

"Yes?"

"No, I mean, I, I'm I—"

"Yes?"

"I, I'm I—"

Rudy screamed and threw their hands up. "WILL YOU STOP WITH YOUR STUPID 'I' JOKE?"

Herr I pouted. "The Alphabets always tell me off for repeating things. But this should be new for you."

"Yes. For the first three days."

I looked sad, which made Rudy mildly alarmed. "Ok. Whatever. Let's go back to work. I think Lord Gloria may be suspecting something."

"It wasn't I!"

Rudy gave him a dirty look, then went ahead. "Fair enough. James should have done a better job with his melodramatic scene when we sent Lord Gloria on holiday on the British Virgin Islands. You know, acted harder. But he said he was concentrating on his role for the play. Which really makes zero sense, because that should have helped."

Herr I stopped pretending to understand. Which he did very well, his job being playing good (and sometimes clueless) cop to the Major during interrogations. "Fine. So Eroica is suspicious. How do you know that?"

"When he saw his hotel, he phoned Bonham and asked him to up James's medications."

"Oh."

"Indeed. And he also asked who'd chosen his destination, and if there was a place called the German Virgin Islands. He actually made me look it up."

"But why would this be a sign he's suspicious?"

"He's asking too many questions. He usually trusts us with his life."


	10. Herr J

Bonham looked up from his to-do list to witness a copy of the script waved in front of him with vehemence.

"Why can't you make him—me—not so much of a pushover? Why should he—me—feel anything at all about other people being stupid with their money?" James threw a heartbroken look at Dorian's portrait on the wall. A lone tear track glistened on the side of his face curtained by his hair.

 _Proof of the existence of a second eye_ , thought Bonham, and filed the fact away for later consideration.

Davies leaned his thin frame against the same wall, and smirked. "Yes. Why should he—you—feel anything at all."

Herr J looked up from a thick ledger, just in time to see Bonham give Davies a not-so-playful shove. "Cut it. It's not fair, you know. Why don't you go check out on Gordon? He was supposed to serve lunch ages ago."

"Maybe he was busy dealing with cockroaches. They're hard to kill—I told him he should use a blowtorch."

James smushed his face against the wall, and gave one long, lone wail.

Bonham's voice was an icy non-scream. "Davies. I said. Cut it. Stop loitering around, and go see about lunch. Unless you really fancy dealing with Rudy when they're hungry."

Davies sniffed and sauntered to the door. As he went, Herr J gave him a stare of pure hatred. Davies turned around and barked: "You! What are you looking at?"

J looked down his ledger quickly, and mumbled. "Class solidarity. Accountants should stick together. Even if he nabbed the spotlight, and I'm playing a skating penguin in the background."


	11. Herr K

"Look, the Major's not here—hopefully—so I don't see why I have to double my usual workout."

"G? Just do it. It'll do you good." Herr K adjusted his NATO-issue towel around his neck, and smoothed the front of his navy-blue tracksuit.

"Do you enjoy being bossy, or is it something that all you gym managers do when they get promoted to military physical performance specialists, and it goes to their heads?"

"Another word and you get 40 more repetitions. Can't you trust me? It will do you good."

G drew a deep breath and lifted the 25 kg dumb-bell. C, who was passing by, gave a girly scream and ran out of the room. Rudy, who was idly juggling five lumps of coal, cocked their head: "is that guy C always like that?"

"Only when weightlifting is involved. Frustrating." Sighed K. "Keep going, G! You'll thank me!"

"Nnnnhhggg-not!"

"You will, as soon as you get around to seeing the cast list. They just handed it out."

"What?" G dropped the dumb-bell. "Did they change my role?"

"Nope. You're still Bob Cratchit. Green is quite your colour, if I say so."

"Then what?"

K took a sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to G. She looked at it, blinked and paled. "But—"

"Yes. They cast Tiny Tim. It's official. Now you see my point?"

Mechanically, G turned around and picked up the dumb-bell. " You said 40 repetitions?"


	12. Herr L

"Come on, Bonham. It's just a small part. And you're by far the best man for the job. They need all the help they can get." Jones looked hopeful. Very hopeful.

"I'm already taking care of most things!"

"So, how's that different from the usual?"

Bonham shook his head. "For my sins. I guess I can work on the script during the make-up rehearsals—"

Jones smiled widely. Very widely. "No make-up. You'll be in a full-body costume. Saves a lot of time."

"You. Want. Me. To. Play. A. Muppet."

"What else—I mean, ehm,—" Jones grabbed a startled L by the arm and shook him a bit. "You! Show Bonham his costume. Look, I asked our chief costume designer to take care of it."

L preened. "I don't want to brag, but I am in charge of the Major's clothes. He never has the time, and he really doesn't care, which means he's very hands off—I have a cushy job."

Bonham stared at him. "You mean you handle Uncle NATO's ties, too?"

"Yes. Why?"

"WHO'S ASSIGNING JOBS HERE? I WANT THEIR HEAD, NOW!!"

Jones grabbed Bonham by the arm, and held hard. Very hard. "Bonham. Your blood pressure. You know you shouldn't get upset. And talking about heads. L, show him his head. His costume's head I mean."

Bonham looked at the head. Fur. Lots of long, shaggy, red fur. Black eyebrows. Lots of eyebrows. And teeth. Lots of teeth. "He made a strangled noise. "I'm—I'm playing—"

Jones nodded. "Animal."


	13. Herr M

G mopped her forehead with a gym towel, and slumped on the sofa next to M, who was turning a knobbly piece of soft purple foam this way and the other. G unscrewed a lime-green energy drink bottle and drank half of it in one go.

M eyed the drink with distaste. "That stuff will rot your stomach."

"And give me enough strength to carry off my role. Literally." She guzzled the rest of the drink, and leaned back, eyes closed. M kept fiddling with the foamy material. G opened one eye. "I'm probably going to regret asking this, but how's Operation Distract and Detour going?"

"I'm not sure. It's odd, but I haven't spoken to A or Z in a while: it's such a madhouse here. Last I heard, the Major sent a cable asking about the freezing point of penguin eggs. Odd."

"WHAT?! I thought we'd sent him to the North Pole. Who—"

"Of course we did. But it might have been some code—except even O couldn't make head or tails of it." M's face went gloomy. "Or maybe the Major's starting to suspect. But how? I thought it was the perfect diversionary manoeuvre..."

"Hardly. You know, even if the Major can be spectacularly ignorant in certain areas, we should have tried something less far-fetched. He must be starting to suspect—"

M sniffed. "What's odd or far-fetched in being called to investigate a mysterious killer decimating Father Christmas's reindeer?"

G opened her mouth, then closed it again, and shook her head. She mopped her forehead again and stood up. "Ok. More repetitions. Make sure C doesn't get into the room while I'm working out."

M looked up, waving the bundle of purple foam. "Wait! Before you go. Would you know how this should be worn?"

"If this question's been prompted by some chauvinistic gender stereotype about women and clothes—"

"Course not, you idiot—it's that you're the only person in the room and I have to get into my costume now, the band starts rehearsing in five minutes."

"Well, I wouldn't know either. I've never dressed as a singing bunch of grapes."

M sighed. "Back-up singing bunch of grapes."

"Back-up singing bunch of sour grapes."

M went as purple as his costume. Then he looked at the floor, and whispered. "Do you think I was cast as a bunch of grapes because I am in charge of catering?"

"No, I think it's because whoever is assigning roles hates you. Hates us all."


	14. Herr N

Rudy lifted their head and sniffed. "Food! At last!"

They threw the coal lumps they were juggling in the coal-box and made a beeline for the dining hall. Only to come to a boggled halt when they saw who was supervising the buffet while sing-songing and shuffling food around with abandon.

"Bork! Bork! Bork!" 

Ducking the roast duck flying their way, Rudy asked. "Ah, sorry. And you are?"

_"Kan du inte se att det är ju jag som är den svenska kocken?"_

"Uh?"

The man in the muppet suite clapped a hand over his chest and bowed, dipping his white chef hat in the turmeric and beetroot sauce in the process. "My professional moniker is Herr N. Presently seconded—or rather, dragooned—into this infantile spectacle by the confounded _minus habens_ bestowing rôles and apportioning métiers in a grossly erratic manner. I am appearing in the part of a cuisinier from the Scandinavian peninsula."

"A Swedish Chef. "

_"Ja. En svensk kock. Un chef suédois. Un cocinero sueco. Ein schwedischer Koch. Một đầu bếp người Thụy Điển. Un cuoco svedese._ _スウェーデン人シェフ._ _Svéd szakács. шведский повар—"_

Rudy raised their hands to stem the verbal deluge, and frantically cast around for a diversion. "Should you be handling food when you're wearing your costume? If you stain it—hey, watch that Chocolate Mousse near your elbow!—Herr L will kill you."

"I am merely practicing my craft. I favour Method acting. If I am to be a chef, I need to know my motivation from the inside. _Att vara eller icke vara, det är frågan!_ I need to inhabit my character fully, imbibe his spirit—"

"Oh God, I knew it had to be the Gin!"

N sniffed. "I regret to inform you that I am an abstainer, so please desist from such unwarranted slander!"

"My apologies. Please continue."

"—I am endeavouring to appropriate my character's mannerisms, their speech patterns—"

"You mean you learned Swedish to play a bit-part muppet—no offense meant—"

"Naturally not, you heathen! I am the Alphabet's language specialist. I speak 17 languages fluently, and I can read 5 more. Not that I can utilise my skills overly; we trade continuously crude barbs in English or Russian, with sporadic _passim_ death threats. The latter is verily a textbook example of phatic function: I cannot fathom why having the Major's Magnum pointed between your eyes should require verbal clarification as to his intent. Suffice to say, I spend most of my time immersing myself in the greatest dramaturgy from countless cultures, and cultivating a thespian soul. And even as my whole being yearns to restore pride and faith in my professional craft and calling, some becursed scoundrel puts me in a vaguely anthropomorphical vaudevillian suit. Do you know how arduous it is, even for a seasoned thespian, to have to bring oneself to embody such a xenophobic monodimensional caricature? But I will not be cowed, nor hide my light under a bushel – I will bring all my skills to any assignment, no matter how wretched!"

He took a deep breath and began declaiming:

_"taH pagh taHbe’. DaH mu’tlheghvam vIqelnIS._

_quv’a’, yabDaq San vaQ cha, pu’ je SIQDI’?_

_pagh, Seng bIQ’a’Hey SuvmeH nuHmey SuqDI’,_

_‘ej, Suvmo’, rInmoHDI’? Hegh. Qong — Qong neH —_

_‘ej QongDI’, tIq ‘oy’, wa’SanID Daw”e’ je_

_cho’nISbogh porghDaj rInmoHlaH net Har._

_yIn mevbogh mIwvam’e’ wIruchqangbej._

_Hegh. Qong. QongDI’ chaq naj. toH, waQlaw’ ghu’vam!_

_HeghDaq maQongtaHvIS, tugh nuq wInajlaH,_

_volchaHmajvo’ jubbe’wI’ bep wIwoDDI’;_

_‘e’ wIqelDI’, maHeDnIS. Qugh DISIQnIS,_

_SIQmoHmo’ qechvam. Qugh yIn nI’moH ‘oH."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kan du inte se att det är ju jag som är den svenska kocken?_ Swedish for "Can't you see I'm the Swedish Chef?"
> 
> _Att vara eller icke vara, det är frågan!_ Swedish for "To be or not to be, that is the question."
> 
> The line starting with _Ja. En svensk kock_ is just "a Swedish Chef" repeated in several different languages. You may have fun identifying them and letting me know in the comments. 
> 
> The final poem is Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy in Klingon. I think.


	15. Herr O

Jones looked at the stage, tut-tutting under his breath. "What do you think? Should I move back the coal-box to the left?"

Herr O shrugged, and marked the new location of the coal-box on the set plan. Then he frowned, tilted his head to one side, started to count grids on the plan's squared paper, mouthing slowly: "B-a-h-!-h-u-m— HOW CAN YOU KNOW THAT! WHO TOLD YOU?"

"Sorry? Know what?"

"It's classified! The Portsmouth mission is classified! It's all B's fault if I couldn't solve the easiest cipher in the world anyone can solve a Napoleon cipher A's wife solved it I should have solved but I didn't and I don't know why and now look at you you just kept moving the coal-box until the coal marks on the stage floor spelled 'Bah! Humbug!' in Napoleon cipher are you trying to make me feel inadequate but it's B's fault I'm the best codebreaker ever even the Major hasn't screamed at me in ages—"

Jones grabbed a paper bag from the detritus on Scrooge's desk. "Breathe into this. Slowly, deeply—good, keep breathing—"

Eventually, O drew a few hiccuppy breaths, then rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief to mop his streaming nose.

"There, there. It's all under control. You've done your best, I'm sure. Else uncle NATO would have booted you out a long time ago."

Gazing at the coal marks on the floor with glassy eyes, O whispered: "I know. It's just that my nerves… The doctors say stress is not good for me—and it's getting worse—after the last time we were ambushed—"

"Hey. Hey. It's all right, mate. Relax. Nobody's going to ambush you here—"

"PAPER BAGS ARE EXPENSIVE!"

Jones turned around and looked at James with narrowed eyes. "Just in case you forgot who is Eroica's weapons expert and sharpshooter, let me remind you. It's me. And now help me carry Herr O on the sofa, then go get the salts. And the Gin."


	16. Herr P

Davies marched into the dining hall, grabbed a plate from the buffet and piled it high with food. Then he strode to the table, banged his plate down and threw himself on the nearest chair. 

At the other end of the table, B and P grabbed their plates with both hands and inched surreptitiously away. Davies shoved a large spoonful of orange-y coloured goo into his mouth—and spat it all over the place.

"GAHHH! IT'S FOUL!"

"Uhm, yes. I wouldn't recommend the Orange Platter." B gestured at Davies's plate with his fork. "And I'd stay away from the Surprising Rice, too."

"On the other hand, if you mix Fizzy Yogurt with the Gin, it gets all nicely psychedelic —" Herr P drawled very slowly.

"WHO COOKED THIS FOOD? I WANT THEIR HEADS, NOW!!"

P giggled and swayed sideways. "There were dancing rats. Mr. James was very happy. He introduced them to me, and then offered me Gin."

B grabbed P's arm and gently pushed him upright again. "Your Gordon was busy choreographing James's rats—they play the clerks—so our language specialist took over." He looked at his plate and sighed. "Which shows the limitations of Method acting, really."

"Language specialist? Don't you have someone in charge of catering?"

"Of course we do! M is in charge of all our food, and he's quite good at his job. His fried potatoes are legendary." B sighed again. "But he's been assigned to lead the choir."

P tried to play air guitar, with mixed results. "Band. Bad Band. Very Bad Band. They are calling themselves the Baddest Bad Band now."

Davies's eyes narrowed. "We really need to find out who's assigning jobs. And dig up the guillotine Lord Gloria's ancestor brought back from Le Tréport in 1794."

P clapped his hands very fast. "A guillotine! I've been working at procurement for ages and I never managed to get hold of a real guillotine!"

"Thank God for that."

Ignoring Davies's barb, P raised his arms to the sky. "Not all that wander are lost! There's been some inspired casting! I can fly!"

B pulled P into a vertical position again. "No you can't. You're a penguin."

"I can skate, then!"

"Yes. But not just now. Maybe after you've slept it off."

P's eyes welled up. "B, you don't like me. And I got you all that nice green baize back from the Billiards and Snooker Association." P turned to Davies. "I told you there's been some inspired casting! B here's our star! I saw L fitting him with a lovely green costume, webbed feet and all. They made him Kermit!"

B blushed. "Ehm. Well. Actually… No."

"Why were you wearing a frog costume, then?"

"I'm Tiny Tim. Merry Christmas, everyone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more about the guillotine from Le Tréport, check out the excellent [ The Scarlet Eroica](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148959?view_full_work=true) by dkwilliams. And if you haven't already, go listen to [Cabin Pressure](https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00lmcxj)


	17. Herren Q and U

"Look, they assigned you the perfect parts, for once. You two are inseparable."

"That was before he met W and E and R and T and Y—" Interrupted U.

Q raised his chin, and pressed his lips together until they were white.

Rudy sighed. "Do you think I care about your arrangements? Do you know where you are?"

Q huffed. "It's him, not me. Always indecisive. Always flip-flopping."

U turned, and made as if to leave.

"Oi! U. You. Wait. Your part. It's perfect also because you're a chemist."

U turned again. "I used to be a chemist. Gifthaus Apothecary, in Bonn. Now I am the explosive expert. And poisons. And wine, but that's more recent. The Major said he'd got inspired, after he helped you—"

Rudy interrupted quickly. "We don't talk about that." 

U looked contrite. "Oops. Sorry. We don't talk about that, either. Or we try to. The office pool—"

"No. Just no. No. And U, don't you ever say THAT when anyone is around. Especially James. You do understand, don't you, U?"

"WILL YOU STOP WITH YOUR STUPID 'YOU U' JOKE?"

Rudy narrowed their eyes. "Ok. Fine. This is your part. And in case 'U' ask, the head has no eyeholes. We didn't do it on purpose because you've been contrary from the start. Not at all."

Rudy tuned U's sputtering out, and handed Q his script. Q looked at it, then went purple. "I am basically a pink carrot with a red nose. And he's some sort of quince. And people can't even tell who is who!"

"That was quite my point. You two are—were—inseparable. Who cares who's Beaker and who's Bunsen?"

Q sounded close to tears. "It's a non-speaking part!"

"Not quite. Here." Rudy flipped through the script, took a deep breath and enunciated clearly and sonorously: "Meh-meh. Muh! Mih-moh-muh! Uh. Whuh. Ohdearohdear! Mih-meh-mih!" 

Q blinked rapidly a few times, then said in a very small voice: "when I was told that I—Q—was going to be on stage with James, I thought it was about—well, you know." He blushed. "Casino Royale is my favourite film ever. And the book—" He blushed some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more about the reason why U is in charge of explosives, poisons, and wine, check out the excellent [Not So Horrible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/135729/chapters/194439) by Anne-Li.


	18. Herr R

"I don't think 'I loved Peter Pan as a child' is qualifications enough for you be in charge of the rigging and trussing."

"I don’t see why not! I've read the script. The Three Ghosts of Christmas fly in, just as Peter Pan does."

"You do realise it's an actual human being you're dangling off a rope?"

"I'll remind you that my job requires a high degree of precision, patience and equanimity."

"I'll remind you that you had rigged the spotlight that landed on G."

"That was bumbling B's fault! He turned the steering wheel the wrong way."

"You used a steering wheel?"

"What else would you use to position spotlights? Pulleys and ropes?"

Rudy hid their face in their hands. "I'm not doing this." 

"Yes you are. You and the other two Rudys."

"I'm the only Rudy."

"I was told, and I quote, 'Liaise with Rudy. They are doing the three Ghosts.' _Ergo_."

Rudy's hands moved to the top of their head, their body rocking back and forth, a loud keening coming from their tightly pursed lips.

Herr R raised his voice over Rudy's wails. "I'm doing this _pro bono_ anyway. I don't have to. Probably. And if you don't stop that horrible noise I'm prepared to litigate. Where's your superior?"

The cacophony jointly produced by R and Rudy caught Bonham's attention, and he turned towards them. "Oi! Keep it down! Jones and I are talking about the coal-box!"

Rudy shook their fists above their head, and wailed. "Not only whoever is casting us managed to pick me, the ONE person with vertigo in the whole team, to play THREE flying spirits! They also assigned a total, dangerous incompetent to take care of this risible and sinister contraption—" They pointed dramatically at what looked like a rope dangling from the chandelier, a mis-shapen noose swaying gently in the air currents created by Rudy's gesticulations.

"Young man, I'll have you know—" 

"Person." Interjected Bonham, who had walked up to them, holding a pair of cymbals and his copy of the script.

"Sorry?"

"Young person."

R went on. "Young person, I'll have you know that what you just said constitutes slander in the eye of the Law, and I will not hesitate to recourse to justice."

Bonham closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. "Rudy. I understand. I do. But it's too late now to change parts. We fitted all three costumes for you, and they would be too tight for almost everybody else. Can you do it for me? Or better, can you do it for His Lordship?"

Rudy lowered their arms, looking defeated. "For Lord Gloria. And for Eroica. But if I have to do this, I want to draw my will."

R beamed. "You're in luck, then. I'm the Alphabet's chief lawyer."


	19. Herr S

Herr S contemplated the powdered wig he was holding. "I'm so low in Maslow's pyramid of needs that I'm thinking of referring myself to myself."

Davies looked up from trying to tie a creamy silk cravat around his neck. " Do I look like I care?"

"Ehm. No."

"Good."

S went back to his wig, turning it every which way. "I thought powdered wigs went out of fashion before the 19th century."

"You're a flashback."

"If you mean, I have flashbacks, yes I do. That time in Portsmouth—" S covered his mouth with the wig in his hands. "Oops. It's classified." He spat out a handful of horse hair. "Gah, this wig is foul."

G looked up from her book. "I think L borrowed it from R. Well, 'borrowed' it. It went flying after R's ankle got caught in the rigging rope and he hit the roof. Literally."

Davies looked intrigued despite himself. "Why was R wearing an 18th century powdered wig?"

"Every time we come to England R gets all excited about 'the British judiciary's unassailable sense of propriety, decorum and tradition', and shows up in a QC dress. I think he's been spending too much time with N."

Davies shook his head, tugging at its cravat with force. "Whatever. Hell, this thing is like a noose!"

James's head peeked out from behind the coal-box, and he shook a top hat at Davies. "Don't say that in front of Rudy. I like them. We both went to jail."

"Do I look like I care, bug?"

G shook her book at Davies. "If you're rehearsing for your role, you're doing it wrong. You're supposed to care. Even for James. above all for James."

Davies threw his cravat to the ground and swore. "If I find out who's doing—"

S finished the sentence for him. "—the casting? Yes. That noose sounds tempting just now."

"For them?"

"For me, actually. I can't cope. I'm completely burned out. And the moment I think I can have a break, I discover it's a busman's holiday."

L looked up from the scrap of brown fur he was working on, and mumbled through a mouthful of pins: "What do you mean?"

"NOOSES ARE EXPENSIVE!"

"Oh. I see." L paused. "Maybe Bonham can give you the number of James's specialist, and you can refer yourself to him?"

S gave a weak smile. " _Qapla'_!"

G closed her copy of _A Christmas Carol_. "Bonham took a lot of liberties with the script."

"He didn't. You need to watch the movie. It's on telly tonight."

"I don't have a TV. The Frankfurt school—"

Davies narrowed his eyes, picked up his cravat and twisted it between his hands. James peeked out from behind the coal-box, shaking his top hat at the room in general. "TV SETS ARE EXPENSIVE!"

G spoke quickly. "Never mind. You know I'm with you, S: you're seriously overworked. But look at the bright side. You're our shrink, but not the Major's."

Everybody in the room shuddered. S said: " _Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam_."

"Can you please stop dropping sentences in Klingon? It's annoying when people show off their erudition."

"Pot, kettle, black, G?"

Davies paused from taking a pair of sewing shears at his cravat. "Not that I really care, but how come do you know Klingon? I thought your linguist was H?"

"I picked up a few sentences after the Portsmouth case with the Napoleon code, when I had to focus on O's guilt about not solving the cipher. I kept telling him, 'Look, you did nothing wrong. B forgot to involve N, so you had no way of knowing you'd solved the cipher but the message was in Klingon. _Buy’ ngop!_ ' Then I gave up, and I just told him that it would be best if he assumed the recovery position from the beginning of our session; easier on my back. God, I hate my job."

G shook her head. "Loose lips sink ships, S. Remember those things called 'professional secret' and 'classified'?"

S clapped his hands over his mouth. "Damn. It's this part. I'm supposed to blab the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong way." He pushed away his Fozziwig costume with a foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Qapla'!_ Klingon for 'thank you'  
>  _Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam._ Klingon for 'it's a good day to die.'  
>  _Buy’ ngop!_ Klingon for 'rejoice!'


	20. Herr T

Bonham looked at the bright orange energy drink in G's sports bottle, and closed his eyes. _I won't think of the Orange Platter. I won't think of the Orange Platter. Above all I won't think of the glint in James's eye as he asked the Swedish Chef for his recipe for the Orange Platter._

Jones looked up from the stage maquette, moving the tiny model furniture around, head tilted to one side. He took a step back, then shrugged his head, and flopped on the corner sofa currently doubling as the rest-and-refreshments area. B, who was pouring himself a coffee, took a second cup and filled it to the brim with strong, black coffee. He offered it to Jones, with only minimal bumbling and spilling. Then he made a 'drink?' gesture at Bonham, who raised his glass of tonic water and shook his head.

Sipping and slurping noises filled the silence for a while. Jones picked up Bonham's script and started leafing its pages idly. Then he took out a sheet of lined paper, slowly deciphering Bonham's untidy scrawl—the man had never been introduced to the concept of pencil sharpener, it seemed.

"A plays Dickens—I mean Gonzo—and of course he's the Alphabet's second in command."

B sighed. "I play Tiny Tim and I am the team's bungler."

"Is that a job description?"

"No. I help A out, but my actual role is classified—if I told you I'd have to leave you alone with the Major in a bad mood."

All of the occupants of the room shivered.

G uncapped her bottle with a pop. "C is our Satanist. I mean—our liaison officer with minority cults, magickal associations and shamanic tribes. Tree huggers, chicken-sacrifiers, Ouija board aficionados... If you ask him nicely, he can cast a spell on James and make him become human. Or whatever James's totemic animal is."

Jones looked up from the sheet of paper and stared at G, trying to figure out if she was taking the piss. She smiled back angelically. After a few moments, Jones went back to the cast list, mouthing names in silence, with the occasional comment along the lines of: "E helped me with Gonzo's costume. Until I pulled out the blow-torch—"

B gave a pained scream, and covered his eyes with his hands. G punched him on the shoulder. "Are you a man or a mouse, for God's sake!"

Jones ignored the little aside, and went down the list, occasionally pointing at names. "Here's you, G. I never actually thanked you for patching me up after the blowtorch—"

She waved a hand. "Don't mention it. It's my job. Fucking gender stereotypes."

"The important thing is that you're a good medic."

"Thank you. But I like to think of myself as body disposal unit. I do that as often as I pluck splinters from B's butter fingers."

B spluttered, and Jones gave G another sideways look. Then he shrugged, and kept reading. "H is the Crap Band leader—in a manner of speaking—L is costumes—O helps me out as assistant manager, when he's not having one of his turns—R is hanging—"

"Rigging and lights."

"Oh, yes. Sorry. Uhm, where was I…" Jones looked up and down the list, following the list of names with his finger, then turned it over, and back to front again. "Someone made a mistake. There's no T in the list. Do you know what Herr T's doing for the play?"

G guzzled half of her energy drink in one go, then pulled her sweatband from over her head. "No idea. Nobody knows."

Jones made a 'tzk' sound. "What's his job exactly, as an Alphabet?"

"No idea. Nobody knows."

"What do you mean, nobody knows? Is he too new to have been assigned a job yet? Or is he stealth?"

B shrugged, then shook his head. "Oh, no, he's not our stealth. And he's been with us for years. It's just that we can't figure out what he does. He manages to dodge anything that come his way. Any job I mean—not objects or enemies. Even if he's really good at that, too. We call him Teflon-shouldered T."

Jones nodded sagely. "There's one in all team. We also used to have someone like that. What was their name… Can't even remember. It was a long time ago."

"What happened?"

"James took care of it. He has very strong views on redundancy and wastefulness."

All of the occupants of the room shivered.


	21. Herren V and W

"Why do I see double?"

"That Gin of yours?" Asked H.

"Haven't touched it in ages. I don't have a death wish."

"Uhm. Maybe it's because there's two of them?"

Rudy took a closer look "You're right. They're two people. I think it's their interpretive dance moves that confused me. At least, I think it's a dance. Else, we need to call G."

H shook his head. "I don't think so. I've seen them dance before. And anyway, G went to a conference for the day, 'Que(e)rying Gender' I think it was called. Whatever that means."

Rudy rolled their eyes, and walked up to the two gyrating Alphabets, who were dressed in ragged, gauzy clothes and wore heavy chains. Bonham was waving a snooker cue at them, much like a circus trainer directing dancing bears.

H came up to them. "They're V and W. I think it's their dress rehearsal. But why the chains?"

"CHAINS ARE—"

Rudy jumped a mile, then turned around. "SHUT IT JAMES! We know, chains are expensive. Happy now?"

James looked at his hands, and said in a small voice. "Actually, I wanted to say that chains are good. I bought those ones."

Everybody turned and stared at him. James fidgeted a bit, and then continued. "I like chains because I like being miserable. I like to tie myself to the wall of the basement dungeons and then wait for Lord Gloria to come free me, like a medieval knight on a white charger."

Bonham sighed. "You can't ride a horse to the basement, the stairs are too narrow. And Lord Gloria avoids the basement dungeons like the plague. Says the humidity is murder on his hair."

"I know. I have to unchain myself all by my own after a few days. It's soul-crushing."

"I thought souls were expensive?"

"Davies. Can you please keep your comments to yourself and help C re-arrange the props?"

"I would, if I could trust C not to drop anything moderately heavy."

Bonham gripped his snooker cue until his knuckles went white.

"I can help, maybe?" Said H.

Rudy clapped a hand on H's shoulder. "Nope. I took you here because we need V and W to learn their song."

"Right. Yes. I have it here." H took out of his pocked what looked like a napkin. "G, C, D—"

C dropped the huge plastic turkey he was carrying, and snapped. "'No! I already said I'm not singing! And G is at a conference, and D's in the basement dungeons to see if he can understand how the Gin is ma—OOPS! You haven't heard that!"

James screeched, and ran towards the basement.

Davies kicked the turkey away. "Well, it was worth hearing the oldest, stupidest Alphabets-and-chords joke, if it got James out of the way."

Undeterred, H cleared his throat, looked at his napkin and intoned (in a manner of speaking) " _Won't you help to sing / these songs of freedom?/ Cause all I ever had / redemption songs_."

V and W looked at each other. V said. "I told you we had to run away the moment we heard of this. We are in charge of the car pool and of logistics, how difficult it could have been?"

W pursed his mouth, and then stared at H. "We are in chains. And we're damned. That's the whole point of our role."

"I thought you were Jacob and Robert Marley?"

"We are."

"Well, then. Bob Marley. And family. It's your song."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Que(e)rying Gender' is a real conference, scheduled to take place in September 2020. Its objective was "to explore the past and current status of gender identity around the world, to examine the ways in which society is shaped by gender and to situate gender in relation to the full scope of human affairs."


	22. Herr X

"James. This is not funny. Where's the snooker cue I was using to direct the two Marleys?"

"Two Marleys are redundant and wasteful!"

"Tough. There's two in the film, so—"

"There's only one in the short story. G told me. I approve of short stories—more economical than a novel. Even more economical than a play. Just pen and paper. No coal-boxes; no plastic turkeys; no green baize. And plays are too long."

"You said you wanted a longer play."

"I changed my mind. You convinced me."

Bonham sat down, clutching his chest. He took a couple of deep breaths and exhaled feebly. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. Repetition is redundant and wasteful."

"Yes, as you keep repeating!"

James crossed his arms and held his breath until he turned blue, then he reluctantly took a deep, hitching mouthful of air.

"Look, mate. I get it. You like routine, and this whole play is upsetting. You're so upset you just agreed with what I said. More or less."

James shook his head. "I don't agree with your script. Davies hates me."

"Davies always hates you."

""I know, and I don’t care. But you can make him. He should not hate me in the play. He plays my nephew. Who likes me."

"He's miscast." Bonham ground his teeth. "Like everybody else. Even if he plays your nephew, Davies doesn't like you."

"I know, and I don’t care. But you can make him."

"You're repeating yourself. Again."

James clapped his hands over his mouth, and looked close to tears.

Bonham sat next to James and put his hand on his shoulder. "James. I'll try, ok? I'll add more lines where he likes you."

James took out a patched handkerchief and blew his noise messily. Bonham hurriedly removed his hand, and waited for the moment to pass.

"Better now?"

James nodded.

Bonham stood up. "So, let's start this conversation again. Where's the snooker cue I was using to direct the two Marleys? And before you say that you re-sold it because cues are expensive—"

"I haven't re-sold it! Who do you take me for?"

Bonham stared at him. James stared back.

The impasse was interrupted by an Alphabet coming up to them and clearing his throat meaningfully. "Ah, excuse me? Is this about the magic wand?"

Bonham turned to get a better look at the alphabet. "And you are?"

"Herr X. I play Rizzo the sceptical rat. Pleased to meet you. Would you know where the magic wand is? The one you call 'snooker cue'."

"What do you mean, magic wand? It's not a magic wand. It's a snooker cue. That's why we call it snooker cue."

X gave a conspiratorial smile. "I understand. But we need to be stealthy. Use a code. Or codes. Even if C seems to actually believe it's a magic wand. It's amazing the amount of guff he believes in. There's no such thing as magic."

James looked puzzled. "Really? I thought what C said was interesting—"

Bonham sighed. "James. Magic doesn't exist. Or alchemy. You cannot change lead into gold."

X nodded. "Correct. There's no such thing as magic. I'm a strict believer in rationality and science."

"Well said, mate. As a true sceptic." Bonham clapped his hands together and smiled. "For once, there's been no miscast!"

"I agree. And so does Y. As he says, it's all about rationality and science. Of course the 'snooker cue' is not a magic wand. It's an alien artifact."


	23. Herr Y

"Who of you is Y?"

One of the Alphabets flexed a snooker cue between his hands with a professorial air. "Why are you asking about Y?"

"Why do you want to know? I need Y."

The Alphabet stood up and moved into Bonham's space. "IT'S ME! AND WILL YOU STOP WITH YOUR STUPID 'Y' JOKE?"

Bonham ignored the outburst. "Why. Did. You. Take. My. Snooker. Cue?"

Y stepped back and puffed his chest from a safe distance. Bonham rolled his eyes.

"It's part of my costume. I'm the Headmaster. The Victorian Headmaster, when they still knew how to deal with pupils—" Y made as if to whack the snooker cue on a desk, then took a look at Bonham's face and stopped mid-gesture. He sniffed. "I also like to play snooker. And I have a lot of down time"—he poked his costume's beak—"having a small part—"

"Whatever. Give us." Bonham grabbed the snooker cue and left.

Y shouted softly at Bonham's retreating back. "I was saying, I have a small part! That's why I hang out here in the Billiard room."

"Alas." Said G, looking up from her chemistry book, while pushing back James as he tried to peek into it.

"Young lady—"

G put down her book and took out her gun. Y raised his hands. "Captain."

G dimpled, and put her gun away. "You were saying?"

"Snooker is geometry. I like snooker and I like science. Well, my job is science. I'm the IT expert—"

"—And the expository character."

"No! I'm here because I play the Headmaster, which is the obvious choice for someone like me, who used to be a physics professor—"

"EXPOSITION IS EXPENSIVE!"

"—Even if I have to work with X, my nutter colleague who believes in aliens, I'm a rational being through and through. I believe in quantum mechanics."

"Quantum mechanics doesn't actually make sense, if you really think about it. It's little more than a cheat; a shorthand to explain things too convoluted to be explained properly. Just like exposition." Said G.

"It does make sense! It's perfectly obvious that a coal-box can be at the same time empty and full. Just like a cat. Or an eagle costume. Probabilities."

G sighed. "If you think you understand quantum mechanics, you don't understand quantum mechanics. The cat's a red herring. Probably not probabilistic either. Just a superposition. And the coal-box is both empty and full because James keeps taking out the coals Jones puts into it."

James looked from one Alphabet to the other. "Are the coals in the coal-box alive or dead? And what is more expensive?"

G smiled sweetly. "Why don’t you go check in case Schrödinger's cat ate the herring? Herrings are expensive."

"CATS EAT MICE! MY MICE!" James screeched out of the room.

Y double-checked nobody was left in the room except for G, and decided to grandstand. "You're just envious because you play a reptile, while I got the perfect part. I'm an American Eagle. Land of the free! Cradle of quantum theory."

"Quantum mechanics was largely developed in Europe. Frogs are amphibians. And you're miscast as a Headmaster because you were a lousy lab assistant who was kicked out of your Comprehensive and recycled himself as a computer technician with us. And if you keep being annoying I'll tell the Major that it's actually me who does your job."


	24. Herr Z

Jones clapped his hands over his ears and looked up fervently. " MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE GOD MAKE IT STOP!"

"We're getting ready for the final rehearsal." H waved his sheet music happily. "V and W said the lyrics to _Redemption Song_ were wrong, but we don't know how to play anything else so we changed the lyrics – well, C did. Come on, M, it's your solo."

The bunch of grapes started to sing, only mildly hampered by his foam costume:

_Won't you help to count_

_These days of Christmas?_

_We think they're seventeen,_

_But we don't know._

_But we don't know._

"He's terrible. Off-key, no rhythm… I thought he was supposed to be back-up singing?"

"The others are worse."

"God."

Bonham ran in: "I knew this would happen eventually! DAVIES, LET GO OF JAMES!"

"Nah, it's just the band. Here, earplugs. And by the way, why aren't you with them? They need all the help they can get."

"I can only do it if I don't listen to them beforehand. I get too depressed."

Jones nodded. "You have a point. But cheer up, today's the final rehearsal."

"If A and Z show up. And get their costumes fitted; and learn their lines and their cues; and know their marks …" Bonham pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Should we have put them in charge of Operation Divert and Distract?" 

"They're the most competent of the lot. Which is…" Bonham shivered. "And all of us were too busy. Or not suicidal—I draw the line at dealing with uncle NATO discovering he's being duped."

"Come off it, Bonham. If Lord Gloria asked you, you'd do it."

"Yes. But he hasn't. Thankfully."

N walked in, followed by G. "G said that A and Z are on their way. Not a moment too soon. I need to discuss their motivation—"

"You're never in a scene together."

"I'm a completist."

G looked at him. "N? Piss off."

N flounced off. _"pe’vIl mu’qaDmey! Hab SoSlI’ Quch!"_

"What was that?"

"He said, 'A parting curse to you! Your mother has a smooth forehead!' in Klingon." Explained G. "Anyway. A and Z just radio-ed in, they'll be here shortly. Pedal boats are hard work, but the currents in the Channel were in their favour."

"And the Major and Lord Gloria?"

"ETA in approximately 24 hours. Hopefully still unconscious."

Bonham pursed his lips. "It's going to be tight. But we'll have to do it. Jones, call everybody in, we're doing the final rehearsal."

James ran in. "A and Z arrived and are dripping all over the carpet! CARPETS ARE EXPENSIVE!"

"How can they still be wet? We're twelve miles inland."

"11.24. I bargained it down."

G opened her mouth to explain, but was cut short by the two Alphabets walking in, A carrying a platypus under his arm. The rest of the cast piled onto the stage, variously pushed, pulled and threatened by Rudy and Jones. T tried to take credit for the success of Operation Divert and Distract, one of the skating penguins tripped over the snooker cue, and the platypus stung Davies.

Bonham went into command mode.

"Jones, give us their marks! L, costumes! Rudy, on the trapeze! James, let go of that platypus!" He pulled out two copies of the script and handed them to A and Z. "Here's your parts—highlighted. The others will wave at you when it's your turn to speak. Don't trip on the coal-box."

Z looked at the dog-eared manuscript. "Wait! I don't even know who I'm playing!"

L trotted in, and went up to Z. "Here! Wear this. Snout, wig, petticoat, padded bra…"

Z looked at the costume. "It's a female pig?"

G scoffed. "I thought you'd know a proto-Kardashian when you see one, Casanova."

"WHO DID THE CASTING? I WANT THEIR HEAD, NOW!"

A paused from forcing his head into his Gonzo costume, and raised his hand meekly. "Uhm. I did. Just before we left for Timbuktu. I meant to read the script beforehand, but there wasn't enough time. My wife had told me it was a story about a stingy, unhappy man; so I gave that part to Mr. James—but then I was so busy with planning Operation Divert and Distract, I just assigned people randomly. It's only light entertainment, anyway. What can possibly go wrong?"

Just as the whole cast were closing in on A, B ran in, screaming: "They're here!!!" Quite superfluously, as the sound of baritone curses could be clearly heard from the other side of the curtain.

"Darling, I don't know why you're tied to this chair, and I had nothing to do with it. I just woke up with a sleeping gas hangover. Now, let me pick this padlock, won't take a minute, and if you don't stop yelling I WILL put your gag on again."

A panic of activity followed, as Bonham swore: "Whatever you do, don't raise the curtain yet!"

Fatally, B only heard the word 'curtain' and pulled it open. Two startled pairs of eyes in the audience looked at a considerable number of even more startled eyes, a good number of which squeezed shut in abject terror.

The tableau froze for a split second. Then Bonham stuffed his Animal costume over his head, ran to the drum-kit and yelled "ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!"

H blew into his alphorn, and the show began.


	25. Epilogue: Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us, everyone!

Dorian shifted and settled on Klaus's shoulder, hogging the duvet in the process. Klaus tugged it half-heartedly, then gave up with a sigh.

"They were so sweet. Even if the Swedish Chef's Klingon accent is atrocious. When the skating penguin tripped on the alphorn and flew straight into Animal's kick drum—"

"It was pure idiocy. Whatever it was supposed to be. I should send all the Alphabets to Alaska, looking for penguin eggs."

"Darling, penguins live at the _South_ Pole."

"I know that!" _Now_. "That's why I'm sending them to Alaska. Wild goose egg chase."

"You made a joke!" Dorian's smile abruptly became a horrified frown. "Did you have any Gin?"

Klaus gave Dorian the eye. "I can drink you under the table, you know that."

Dorian put on a reminiscent smile. "Oh yes. But our Gin, well. James—no, never mind."

He settled again, and fiddled with their hair until he managed to knot a few strands together. Klaus tugged his hair free absent-mindedly, then he asked: "There were singing vegetables. Why were there singing vegetables?"

"It's from the film. But they really improved on it, made it funnier. When they all surged together and set Gonzo on fire, for example. A screamed so convincingly: you should send him undercover more often."

"That WAS funny. But it wasn't all sweetness and light."

Dorian shivered. "Yes. Scrooge's characterisation was not funny at all. What he said to Tiny Tim made my hair stand on end. Nothing to do with the film, or the short story. I think that Animal hitting him with the cymbals was symbolic; even if it looked rather impromptu. The way Bonham screamed 'QUIET!'—" He paused. Klaus could feel him shaking his head slowly, then exhaling softly against Klaus's shoulder. "I don't know what to think sometimes. Or do, when James—"

Something in his tone made Klaus bit back his usual 'your team is deranged'. He humph-ed, and tightened his arm around Dorian.

After a few minutes of dejected silence, Dorian rallied. "Klaus? Why did Z go into structural collapse when he tried to lift B, while G held up beautifully?"

"Rosie the Riveter."

Dorian looked up at Klaus in confusion.

"Don't look at me. It's what G said, together with stuff about 'prettified normative representation designed by an old white man to tout the fake empowerment of working class women so that they would take factory work for half the pay and on top of their usual chores, only to be booted out when men were back from the War.' I think. I tuned her out."

"Your Alphabets are weird."

"Bah! Humbug!"

Dorian smiled. "Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us, everyone!"


	26. Appendix: Cast and Characterisation

As I was writing the story, I had to use a cribsheet to keep them all straight (so to speak…) So here you go, if you're interested.

**Name**

| 

**Role**

| 

**Day Job**  
  
---|---|---  
  
Bonham

| 

Director and scriptwriter; plays Animal

| 

Eroica's second in command  
  
James

| 

Scrooge

| 

Eroica's accountant  
  
Jones

| 

Stage manager

| 

Eroica's weapons expert  
  
Rudy

| 

Three ghosts of Christmas

| 

Eroica's forger  
  
Davies

| 

Scrooge's nephew

| 

Eroica's appraiser  
  
Gordon

| 

Dancing mice trainer

| 

Eroica's butler  
  
A

| 

Casting and Operation Divert and Distract; plays Dickens (Gonzo)

| 

Klaus's second in command  
  
B

| 

Tiny Tim

| 

A's assistant. Real role, classified  
  
C

| 

Stage-hand

| 

Satanist  
  
D

| 

Unspecified minor character

| 

Sharpshooter  
  
E

| 

Stage-hand

| 

Weapons  
  
F

| 

Unspecified minor character

| 

Speechwriter  
  
G

| 

Bob Cratchit (Kermit)

| 

Medic and body disposal  
  
H

| 

Band leader

| 

Logistics  
  
I

| 

Unspecified minor character

| 

Interrogator  
  
J

| 

Skating penguin

| 

Accountant  
  
K

| 

Stage-hand

| 

Fitness and hand-to-hand combat  
  
L

| 

Costumes

| 

Wardrobe and disguises  
  
M

| 

Singing bunch of grapes

| 

Food and catering  
  
N

| 

Swedish Chef

| 

Linguist  
  
O

| 

Assistant manager

| 

Cipher expert  
  
P

| 

Skating penguin

| 

Procurement  
  
Q

| 

Beaker

| 

Explosives, poisons, wine  
  
R

| 

rigging and lights

| 

Lawyer  
  
S

| 

Fozziwig

| 

Psychologist  
  
T

| 

?

| 

?  
  
U

| 

Bunsen

| 

Explosives  
  
V

| 

Marley

| 

Car pool  
  
W

| 

Marley

| 

Car pool  
  
X

| 

Rizzo the rat

| 

SETI specialist  
  
Y

| 

Headmaster

| 

IT specialist  
  
Z

| 

Operation Divert and Distract; plays Mrs. Cratchit (Miss Piggy)

| 

Most junior alphabet and teacher's pet


End file.
